


a shepherd on a deck of stars

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Episode s10e12 About A Boy, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3367130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Again, this night, Dean stands on the bunker's roof and stares upwards.</p><p>He has a mug of hot chocolate cradled in his hands, his breath is fogging in front of his face in hazy, swirling clouds. Fuck, but it's cold tonight. He can't even say why he's here, this time. The stars aren't out. And he's alone, this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a shepherd on a deck of stars

 

 

 

 

**a shepherd on a deck of stars**

 

_a shepherd on a deck of stars_

_it digs up your bones_

_lonely, lonely night_

 

_the earth a ray of fire_

_down to wish and_

_tempt you for the catching_

_door_

 

 

 

 

 

Again, this night, Dean stands on the bunker's roof and stares upwards.

 

He has a mug of hot chocolate cradled in his hands, his breath is fogging in front of his face in hazy, swirling clouds. Fuck, but it's cold tonight. He can't even say why he's here, this time. The stars aren't out. And he's alone, this time.

 

Last time, it was right before Cas had left to go dig Metatron outta his cell and kick him down Heaven's stairway. Cas had wanted to leave right away that night. But he'd looked like crap, they'd all looked like crap, and finally Sam'd convinced him to wait till morning. They'd need all the strength and alertness they could muster, after all. Only, Cas was an angel again. Of course he wouldn't sleep. Dean had been dead tired, ready to fall asleep on his feet, though less ready to lie down and face dreams about that fucking room full of slaughtered people, of the mark's steam whistle song in his head, his friends' terrified faces. Terrified of the murder machine in their midst.

 

So, he'd somehow ended up in the kitchen, making hot chocolate just to give his hands something to do, to stir them away from the liquor cabinet. And then, he'd ended up making two cups, because Cas, the freakin' nerd angel, materialized at his elbow, looking frustrated and worried and run down. And there's nothing like hot chocolate to cure something like that, right?

 

Well, probably there is. But how is Dean supposed to know? He's been struggling with finding what the right thing is in any given situation his entire life, and look where it got him.

 

He'd made the second cup anyway.

 

Cas stared at his hands in silence the entire time Dean prepared it, and that's probably creepy, but it's also _Cas_. He's still standing close, still sharing Dean's space, despite of what Dean is, what he was, despite his being marked for hell again.

 

Sometimes it makes something ache deeply and painfully in Dean's chest, how Cas can still do all these things, after everything that's happened to him. How he can still be so kind.

 

>

 

 

 

 

They'd ended up on the roof for no other reason than that Cas had seemed kind of trapped to Dean in the bunker, like he'd paced the hallways and the stony floors for hours. Or maybe Dean had felt trapped too, felt like needing some fresh air, however icy it may be.

 

It really was cold that night, but all the stars had come out of hiding. And when Cas had stepped away from him just a tiny bit, just to get a better look, had tipped his head back and stared upwards, his shoulders finally relaxing, Dean had thought, hey, maybe this wasn't such a stupid idea after all.

 

He'd drank his chocolate, tiny, controlled swallows, and tried not to stare too much.

 

They'd both been silent for a long time, but it'd felt good. Peaceful.

 

Dean had watched the stars himself, bot looked back at Cas every now and then. He'd asked, surprising himself, “Does it look weird? You know, from. Down here.”

 

Cas had looked over to him, then. He'd still seemed sad, but there was some more light behind his eyes.

 

He considered Dean's question for a moment, a faint smile tugging a the corners of his mouth.

 

“I wouldn't know. You can't really see the sky from Heaven. Not like this. Not the. Not all the lights.”

 

He'd stared at Dean, and Dean had had to swallow, shivering in the cold night air with a lump in his throat.

 

Cas had frowned and stepped closer, even though the proximity of his body heat only seemed to make the shivers worse. Dean had cleared his throat, unable to look at him, and blurted out, “Well, I'm glad you like it then.”

 

And he could see the smug bastard's smile from the corners of his vision then, right before Cas had said, “I do. It's very romantic. I guess.”

 

Dean hadn't really know what to say to that, so he'd said nothing. There had been, recently, some other occasions where Cas had said stuff that made no sense, even though it'd been kind of comforting.

 

They'd stayed on the roof for some more time. It was nice, Dean had thought, to be up here and not be alone.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Now, Dean is without Cas on the roof. And, predictably, there are no stars.

 

For a second, Dean considers shooting Cas a text message, something like _why is it so cloudy :-(_

 

Or like, _wish you were here._

 

Instead, he cradles his hot chocolate close but doesn't really drink it. And stares upwards, where there is nothing to see.

 

>

 

 

 

 

Sam tries to focus on other things, tries to stay away, but he keeps coming back.

 

 

He's re-read the same pages several times, then, unsatisfied with the results, he's started hitting the books. He can't really say why, but that whole business with the witch has left him unsettled. Well, unsettled apart from the flesh eating thing.

 

And it does make sense to keep an ear out, and it does make sense to try and find something out about this Great Coven. It does. It just doesn't explain why the flowers don't let him go.

 

It's not even that he's found out anything interesting so far – the lore all tells him the same, that yarrow belongs to _Achillea_ , a group of flowering plants of the family _Asteraceae_ , native primarily to Europe, areas of Asia, and North America. Used among other things to help with fever, insomnia and to staunch the flow of blood from wounds.

 

The name _Achillea_ is supposedly a reference to Achilles having used the flower to heal his soldiers' wounds.

 

Sam tries not to think about what happened to Achilles at Troy.

 

Tries not to imagine his brother, smiling and making a Led Zeppelin reference in reply, if only to stir Sam away from his dark thoughts.

 

Maybe that is what isn't letting him go, what is making him uneasy. Because yarrow is also called allheal, and yes, they did find the cure and killed the witch, but only at the cost of Dean being condemned again. Which Dean says he's made his peace with. But.

 

What if there was another way?

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Dean has been standing in a Target, staring at apples for close to ten minutes now.

 

It's the green, kind of sour ones that Sam likes. And Dean had been planning to buy, like maybe five or six, and then put them in the fridge at home so they'd stay fresh.

 

Only, Sam would want Dean to buy a few for himself too, right? But he doesn't feel like it. Or, he thinks he doesn't.

 

Normally, he wouldn't do this. Wouldn't stand here, staring at apples, in a full store with blinding lights and crowded with impatient people.

 

But he feels kind of confused today.

 

Woke up with a feeling like having twigs for bones, and his mouth tasting like chloroform. Which is, unfortunately, something he's actually familiar with.

 

He didn't even fall asleep with books of useless lore cramping up the empty side of his bed, this time. And still, Sam had looked at him kind of side-ways before Dean had left, too early, to get groceries. Dean has been calm, cheerful – ok, maybe a bit forced cheerful – and still, Sam had looked at him strangely. Fucking figures. He can never get it right.

 

Dean reaches for the apples.

 

“Second chance? I would take the red ones. _Sweeter_.”

 

He whirls around, hand going for his gun, then freezing. Rowena is standing right next to him at his left side. She's wearing an ocker, floor-long dress. Smiling calmly, though her eyes are narrow, calculating.

 

Dean's eyes drag around frantically, but nobody seems to notice them. He looks back to her.

 

“Relax,” she says, as if shocked that he would think so, “I'm not here to hurt you.”

 

He snorts, turns around halfway to start packing apples into a plastic bag. The green ones.

 

“Yeah, and I'm gonna believe you because your track record is so stellar.”

 

He puts the bag down into his cart when he's done, looks back to her, but she doesn't seem to be interested in him. She's picked up something that might be a starfruit, holds it delicately with only the tips of her fingers, then makes a dissatisfied noise and let's it fall again.

 

She steps closer, a wounded expression on her face. She smells overly sweet, and Dean's legs collide with the cart when he tries to step back, “I'm only ever here to _help_ ,” and she lies a hand on his right forearm, so light he barely even feels the weight of her fingers.

 

And still, he tenses up with it, freezes like all strength is flowing out of him. His legs starts to shake, the neon light above his head flickers. He can't breathe.

 

Then he can, and she is gone.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Sam is still in the library when he hears several soft thuds, like something falling to the ground, followed by muffled cursing.

 

He gets out just in time to see Dean trying and failing to keep himself upright, one arm keeping a white-knuckled grip on the staircase, like his legs can't hold him up. He looks pale and exhausted and shaky, and Sam arrives just in time to throw Dean's other arm over his shoulder and pull his brother against him, away from the staircase.

 

There are apples, strewn all over the floor.

 

“Dean, what the fuck happened?!”

 

“Ugh,” Dean has his eyes closed, his mouth turned downwards in a grimace, and his feet more dragging than actually helping with supporting his weight, “I am never buying apples again.”

 

 

 

 

They make it to Dean's room, and Sam slowly lowers his brother on the mattress. Dean doesn't even kick his shoes off, just flops back against his pillow and drags a slightly trembling hand over his eyes.

 

“Rowena showed up. Gave me advice on fruits of all things, then told me she was here _to help_ , and then – flashed off again.”

 

He snorts, proceeds to shake his head, then seems to think better of it.

 

Sam frowns at his brother while Dean massages his temples.

 

“Wait, she didn't – attack you? Or anyone else? Why was she even there?”

 

Dean lets his hands fall away again, though he still looks pained, tired.

 

“No clue. She like – gripped my arm though. Felt like I got suckerpunched.”

 

Sam swallows. “The arm with – ”

 

“With the mark, yeah.”

 

They fall silent for a moment. Sam stares at the lore books next to the bed, the empty coffee mug on Dean's nightstand. He stands besides Dean's bed, and is struck by the thought that Dean looks small, almost brittle. His skin pale, the fingers of one hand rubbing over his closed eyes. Sam can feel his throat close up.

 

“And you, it didn't make you feel like – ”

 

Dean looks up at him again. “Knifing her right then and there? No. I mean, don't get me wrong, we probably gotta figure out how to deal with her, but I didn't. Hulk out. I just feel, _drained_ , I guess. But. Not angry.”

 

Dean's staring at his own hand for a second, then let's it fall down on the mattress. He looks confused, and still kind of out of it.

 

Sam nods, “Right, I'll uh. Let you get some rest.”

 

When he turns again to close the door, Dean is already sound asleep.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Sam's heart is pounding when he returns to the library. He puts half the books he's had spread over the tables for days away, replaces them with slightly different ones.

 

He puts one of the apples beside him, too. He had put the groceries Dean had brought away after leaving Dean to sleep, shaking his head in weary fondness at the amount of apples that had apparently been in the bag until it'd ripped. And starfruit hadn't even been on the list. He wonders, for a moment, what might have made Dean bring it back with him.

 

The book about yarrow lore, he leaves that one out on the table. He has a feeling he might need it again.

 

It feels good, having it there. Good, feeling like he's finally on the right track.

 

>

 

 

 

 

 

Again, this night, Dean stands on the bunker's roof and stares upwards.

 

 

He still feels drained, a little unsteady. But he likes it up here. Likes the quiet.

 

Even though it feels lonely, tonight.

 

 

 

There are a few stars out, directly over his head, but he feels like there should be. More. Weren't there more, before?

 

He thinks about Sam, and the book on the table next to him, open on a page with what looked like an oil painting of some old Greek war scene.

 

He thinks about Cas, miles and miles away, with only texting and the occasional call to connect them.

 

Dean is freezing, he hasn't brought a mug with him this time. That wasn't what had kept him warm before, anyway.

 

It's so cold. And darker, already. Dean can't even see his own breath tonight. Maybe this is what peace feel like though. Maybe that's just it.

 

_You can't really see the sky from there._

 

His throat closes up and his face feels hot, his eyes prickly, but he remains standing there, anyway.

 

Keeps staring at the stars.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> poetry is my own


End file.
